Squidward Thighs Novels & Stories

My sundress bunched around my thighs, letting my legs kick up water at intervals. Marcus floated deeper in, chest-deep, arms stretched along the wall behind him. Water beaded on his shoulders, dropping down his neck. His white boxers clung tight. Wet cotton turned almost see-through, outlining every curve and ridge beneath. The fabric molded to him so completely I could see the thick shape of him resting heavily against his thigh. He didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he wanted me to notice. I had always dragged my eyes away each time it hooked below his belly.

His hard length pokes through his gray tailored pants, betraying his relaxed posture. My thighs shake as I imagine what it would feel like to have that thickness between my ass cheeks again. The sound that rips from my throat is so filthy, my cheeks flame almost immediately. That doesn't stop my hips from rolling slowly, sexier, to meet the thrust of my fingers. The slick, squelching sounds fill the air as my juices run down my fingers.

As he does that , his strong hands move along my legs , until they lay on my thighs. "The only time you squeeze your tights , is when they are wrapped around my head" he whispers seductively in my ears , causing my sex drip more with my juices. After saying this , his hands squeeze hold of my thighs and separate them. I gasp at this erotic move , that exposes my wetness to him. Due to his earlier childish actions , my flimsy shorts are drenched - thankfully , because if they weren't I am sure he would of seen how wet I am.

I can’t help but needle. “I didn’t mean it—” The sentence kind of teeters over a ledge. “So what do I smell like then?” He turns stern and rigid, ignoring the question and striding ahead toward the wider of the two streams in a very business-like manner. He squats to let the water run over his hand. He’s doing a lot of squatting and crouching, and each time he does, his thigh muscles strain against his jeans and boxers, half-baked ideas fly around my brain—perching on his thigh and kissing him, straddling the thick, hard thigh and grinding.

The heat soaked into my sore muscles and the ache between my thighs started to ease almost immediately. "Oh god‚" I breathed‚ closing my eyes. "That's so good." "Good." I heard the rustle of fabric and opened my eyes. Thorne was pulling his sweatpants down. No underwear. Of course. He stepped out of them and stood there for a second and I let myself look because I'd earned that right at this point. Every line of his body was hard and defined‚ his abs tight‚ the V of his hips leading down to where his cock hung heavy between his thighs. Even soft‚ he was big enough to make me clench involuntarily.

I probably was insane, but I couldn't help what my eyes saw. ​My eyes trailed downwards involuntarily, and I was secretly disappointed to see that he was wearing some sort of specially made, thick elastic shorts. It made practical sense, of course, though I would never admit out loud to wishing I could catch a sneaky look at his junk in this form. ​His thighs and arms looked like unyielding trees that could easily crush anything they set out to crush. It was seriously intimidating.

Clare ruthlessly quashed the wave of jealousy that began to rise in her chest. She took her place on the sofa beside Bertrand. He lifted his head like a somnambulant tortoise and let her slide her legs underneath. His eyes were glued to the television. Clare had definitely got the raw end of this deal. She let her gaze travel the length of his body. He was thicker-set than Jean. His thighs were huge, a rugby player’s, covered in dark hair. His magnificent dick was sleepily curled between them. Clare let her hand rail nonchalantly across his well-muscled chest, while she sipped her drink and tried to under stand the adverts.

“Squeeze your glutes at the top. You’ve got plenty there to work with. It’s an asset, not a problem.” His voice was low, right by my ear. Complimenting my ass like it was something good. I felt that familiar ache between my thighs again, growing wetter with every correction. My leggings were damp from sweat, but this was different. Slick. Embarrassing. I prayed he couldn’t tell.

Fred POV The locker room door bursts open and Thunder walks inside the room. Everyone’s eyes move to watch as he smirks and walks directly to me. His smile made me sick. Looking at him is making me want to punch the life out of him. The bruises on his face are still visible. I can see Thatcher is not really understanding what is going on, and as if it wasn’t enough for me to have to deal with that fucktard. Now I have to deal with his fucking criminal.

Because of the size of his thighs, the thin fabric of his underwear was unable to conceal the fact that they were incredibly muscular and powerful. And last but not least, he had broad shoulders that tapered down to narrow hips, which gave him the appearance of being very athletic. His thighs were trim and toned, and his calves ended in broad, manly feet that tapered off into thin toes. His feet were manly and broad, but his toes were thin.